


Elliptical

by GalaxyAqua



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Crying, F/F, Iruma Miu's Dirty Mouth, Lots of it, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Swearing, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyAqua/pseuds/GalaxyAqua
Summary: Iruma is beautiful (undoubtedly, inarguably, always has been) but she’s never pretty when she cries, and it’s not because of her nose wrinkling or her eyes going puffy and red — it’s because Toujou cannot bear to watch on when she can see that she’s in pain, but has the duty of reminding herself that she has no other option.





	Elliptical

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystic_Diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystic_Diamond/gifts).



> Thank you for your incredible support.

It always ends like this.

The fluorescent lights of Iruma’s bathroom are too harsh for the occasion, Toujou observes, as she dutifully sets the glass of water on the vanity and slips towards the inventor, careful not to startle her.

Iruma is beautiful (undoubtedly, inarguably, always has been) but she’s never pretty when she cries, and it’s not because of her nose wrinkling or her eyes going puffy and red — it’s because Toujou cannot bear to watch on when she can see that she’s in pain, but has the duty of reminding herself that she has no other option.

“Fuck…” Iruma groans, banging her head against the side of the bath. Toujou doesn’t flinch. “I hate this, I fuckin’ hate everything! Fuck me! Fuck you! Fuck everyone!”

“Iruma-san,” Toujou interjects politely. Her hand barely brushes Iruma’s shoulder when it’s shoved away. She takes as silent a breath as she can muster. “Shall we talk about it or would you prefer to wallow alone? I am here if you require assistance.”

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of this!” Iruma shrieks in lieu of answering proper. Her fingers clasp together tightly in front of her as she rambles on, “My fuckhead boyfriend, right? He’s been dickin’ around, just like all my other fuckin’ exes, like I don’t have any feelings, oh no, like I’m not more than eye candy and he’s cream of the fucking cock! Am I that boring, huh!? Am I that cheap? The fuck is wrong with people, can’t see there’s a literal goddess in front of them, do they have balls for eyes— ugh,” she slumps forward with a groan. “Fuuuuck my life.”

Toujou wishes to apologize, in every way she possibly can, but she knows her apologies hold no merit. She is capable of many things but she cannot change the hearts of Iruma’s lovers to be kinder, or more faithful, or to treat her with the love and respect of which she has a dire need.

 _I’m better for you_. She doesn’t say aloud, but it’s a bitter, bitter sentiment. Improper, shameful, but true. _I’m far better for you than any of them will ever be._

She coaxes Iruma back upright with a firm grip on her shoulder, retrieving the glass of water with one swift movement and offering it up. Iruma glares at her, but it’s not as piercing as it could have been, and Toujou has never been one easily intimidated.

“Drink,” Toujou commands. It comes out sharper than she would have hoped, she supposes, because Iruma whimpers miserably and takes the glass with shaky hands. She’s going to spill some and Toujou isn’t going to cradle her nimble, calloused fingers to prevent it.

It isn’t for the first time that Toujou wishes she could be more personal with her job. Instead of holding Iruma’s hands steady, which is what she would like to do and feels the dire urge to, Toujou cleans up the inevitable splash of water that falls to the tiles below.

Quickly coming to her senses, Iruma sits back, sipping begrudgingly at the water. It takes no longer than a couple of seconds to have her sticking out her tongue in disgust.

“Fuckin’ bland,” she complains, nose wrinkling. “No thanks. Hard pass.”

“It will make you feel better so drink all of it,” Toujou tells her, though she knows that no matter how much water she forces herself to swallow, it won’t mend her broken heart. She wishes these things had a simpler cure.

Iruma seems to come to the same conclusion and sneers bitterly, “You tryin’ to get me wet, Toujou? I know I might not look it, but cheating ain’t my thing. I’m a loyal and faithful _bitch_.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Toujou says, and she means it. Iruma’s loyalty is one of her best qualities. It is also one of her most detrimental. “However, forgive me for saying this aloud but I also believe that you have no reason staying with your partner if he’s going to continue seeing other women behind your back.”

“Ugh, he’s not! Okay! I can’t believe he just… no, he’s not seeing them, he’s just… playin’ around… ‘cause we promised we’d love each other, and he’s… he’s always been flirty, and…” She exhales shakily, twisting the ends of her hair furiously around her finger. The glass rattles in her other hand. “... no, fuck it, I can’t believe I’m not enough for him. What a jerkass. I can be better. I’ll show them! I’ll show everyone I’m top of the world, high-class and unbeatable, and then they’ll see! They’ll regret ever tryin’ to fuck with me!”

The phrasing stirs a deep set hatred in Toujou’s heart, for the man who won’t see what he’s got and for Iruma who won’t see that he’s not worth it at all. Changing one’s most genuine self for the sake of others is what makes Toujou – ideal-conforming extraordinaire – bitterest of all.

Iruma’s bold declaration drops like a pin when she realizes Toujou isn’t going to humor her, and the maid’s stoic expression causes her to coil into herself, suddenly insecure. Toujou snaps out of it quickly, bridging towards a softer, kinder expression, before taking Iruma’s glass so she doesn't drop it and placing it back where it had been previously.

Then she gestures for Iruma to turn around, and as they both kneel, Toujou begins to comb out some of the tangles in Iruma’s hair. The inventor is startlingly quiet, and Toujou half-anticipates another outburst either egotistical or lewd in nature, but instead, Iruma breaks a little. It’s always just a matter of time.

“U-ugh… why am I so…” Iruma’s bottom lip starts trembling and she furiously bites down on it. Blood starts beading on her lip, and Toujou opens her mouth to suggest quelling it, but Iruma keeps talking. “...unloveable?” She finishes, but she isn’t finished. “Fucked up?”

Toujou feels her own fingers tensing, catching on a curly blonde knot, knowing that no matter what sort of reasoning she conjures, Iruma will not believe her. It makes no difference. Iruma keeps talking like she isn’t here.

“Maybe I’m destined to die alone, ‘cause nobody is gonna be good enough for me and I’m not gonna be good enough for them double-triple standards, like, I know I’m not easy, but I ain’t tooting my own fuckin’ horn for no reason! I’m just,” Iruma seems to hesitate over which descriptor to use. On good days, she’s only ever spewing about how amazing she is, but on other days, she can’t seem to find the words that fit right at all. “I’m so much better than everyone, aren’t I!? My golden brain will go down in history! I’m going to change the world and I don’t need any circlejerking limpdick maggotheads in my – in my life –”

Toujou keeps brushing her hair.

“I don’t need any swine-faced double-crossing bastards in my – so what if nobody would miss me – so what if I just… fucked off into the godhood I deserve,” Iruma says, and her voice keeps fluctuating between bold and vulnerable. “Just flew off into the fucking sun and became the hottest bitch in the universe. I really could do that! Ha! And nobody would miss me! Nobody would miss me at all!”

“I would miss you,” Toujou murmurs quietly, uncertain for the first time if she was overstepping her boundaries with the admission.

Iruma doesn’t seem to realize the weight of the words, or if she does, she doesn’t accept them.

“Oh, like you give a flying shit about me!” She snaps, and it takes Toujou everything not to recoil, not to give voice to the clambering frustration stirring in her throat.

She’s turned down better jobs, higher offers, less demanding workloads and concealed her most personal feelings, all with a single intention in mind.

All just to stay by Iruma Miu’s side.

Yet imparting this information would be unprofessional, so Toujou resists the downward furrow of her eyebrows and allows her expression to remain painfully neutral.

“And what would you mean by that?” She asks.

“You—you’re being _paid_ to care about me…! ‘Cause a fuck-up like me can’t even look after herself, huh?!” Iruma hurls vindictively at her, face twisting with her rage. “I bet—I betcha you, you, you go home to people who love you and you tell them all the horseshit I put you through ‘cause all I ever do is ruin everything and…!” Her expression crumples. “Nngh…! Forget it! Even now, you’re looking at me like I’m a piece of trash, like dirt under your shoe…! I don’t need to tell you anything! It’s not like you care!”

“Iruma-san, you know that isn’t true,” Toujou almost pleads, but her emotions have to be locked away for her own good.

 _I do care, I do care, I care about you so much._ She can’t let the words surface. _You are the reason I do this. Not because of payment, or reputation. Only you. This is home to me. You are home to me. I’ve come to care about you, maybe too much._

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that,” Iruma hisses, finding a burst of strength in her anger and storming out. “Don’t pretend I mean something to you! I hate that kind of fuckery the most!” She yells, and it’s an order so Toujou serves it, even if it is not the truth.

She is not pretending at all.

“My apologies, I did not mean to offend you,” she replies, because she knows she must always be polite no matter what, and gives chase with a quick step, skirt billowing as she moves to track Iruma down.

Iruma’s in the midst of lacing up her boots on the entryway steps when one of the shoelaces frays and snaps cleanly. She kicks the boot off and throws it against the wall.

“Fuck you!” She shrieks. “Everything fuckin’ hates me, nothing ever goes right, why do I even bother, I’m—” her hands rake through her hair viciously and she pulls the strands over her face, “A gorgeous girl genius, I’m—” she sniffles miserably, “Perfect and talented, and I can do so much better than everyone else, I gotta stop moping around and feelin’ sorry for my privileged ass, the world is full of plebs that wanna be me or do me—”

“Iruma-san,” Toujou ducks beside her, radiating all the calmness she can muster, hoping that it is infectious enough to soothe her agitation. “Are you alright? Do you require anything to make you feel better? I can mend your boot, if you wish.”

Her head snaps up to glare at her and her other boot slams against the wall. “I don’t give a shit about my fuckin’ boot! Leave me alone! I don’t need you wasting my precious time with your – your fakeass bitch mouth, shut the fuck up and leave me alone!”

“I cannot leave you alone in this state,” Toujou tells her. She does her best not to fret. Not to flutter. Iruma is capable of standing on her own, and Toujou knows that she really shouldn’t have gotten so attached.

“You’d be better off that way,” Iruma grumbles irritably, ignorant of her maid’s inner turmoil. “You could be lookin’ after prudish girls who only ever ask you to iron their dresses and make them tea. You could get with some filthy rich bastard who’d treat you to fine dining every night,” her head falls back into her hands and she stays there, curled up on the entryway steps.

“Despite what you suggest, I do not wish to resign from this job,” Toujou responds. It’s the truth.

“You’d be the perfect wife, too.” Iruma mentions quietly. “You’re good at cooking and cleaning, you’re beautiful as all hell, you’re a damn smooth talker when you need to be. Ugh, why don’t ya get wifed by some billionaire already and live it up balls deep in luxury? We aren’t all that lucky.”

Toujou swallows the lump in her throat. She wonders if Iruma — wonderfully talented and spectacular and individualistic Iruma — is envious of her. Toujou, who has no other purpose than to serve, and is nowhere near as remarkable.

She does not hold herself in low esteem, of course, she knows that she is skilled, she simply isn’t anything revolutionary. Not like Iruma Miu, who is astounding and brilliant and who thinks she’d be the perfect wife, when Toujou does not hold any attachment to the notion whatsoever.

The sentiment though, that Iruma thinks she is perfect in any respect, sets her traitorous heart aflutter. She cannot let it interfere with her work. She will not.

“I have no comment.” Toujou answers carefully, as she always has when she cannot respond without imparting an opinion or bias, “However, I don’t believe any of that is relevant to this conversation.”

“Of course ya fuckin’ don’t,” Iruma laughs bitterly. “Cause you’re humble, as well. Aren’t as up-yourself as I am, no need to brag about bein’ sexy, important and powerful ‘cause every fucking person can see you’re all that even from. Fuckin’ miles away. It’s real obvious and you don’t even flaunt it! Why don’t you stay prissy fuckin’ perfect somewhere that won’t make the rest of us feel like shit?”

Toujou remains silent.

She knows she should feel gratitude for the strew of compliments — Iruma gives them sparingly, after all — but she isn’t. They are coming from a place of anger, from a place of misconstrued hurt.

She wishes Iruma could see how indescribably wonderful she is herself.

“You’re perfect.” Iruma says, twirling her hair around her finger again. She sounds exhausted, beaten and dejected. “So you wouldn’t understand.”

“I am not,” Toujou insists. “And I assure you, if you could explain to me why you believe this, I will do my best to understand.”

“W-well, y’know! It should be obvious, duh! Perfect people don’t choose to deal with fuck-ups like me! They just,” Iruma trembles, wrapping her hands around herself as though there is a chill she cannot shake. “They just hurt me. And I-I’m the idiot that falls for it, over and fuckin’ over again…”

 _I wouldn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you._ Toujou wishes she could say. _I’d sooner reap revenge on everyone that ever harmed you than to ever hurt you._

When Iruma falls forward, like she can’t stand to even hold herself upright anymore, Toujou dives forward to catch her. She tucks her under her chin, protective but not overbearing, letting herself have this one thing. This one selfish thing.

Iruma smells like watered down perfume, sweat and tears. She shakes in Toujou’s arms as she sobs anew, and she pounds weakly at Toujou’s back before succumbing to her embrace and clinging onto her as though she was all she had left.

“Nobody will ever love me,” Iruma says.

“That’s not true.”

 _I love you._ Toujou won’t say.

“Agree with me.” She hisses. “That’s a fuckin’ order!”

Toujou feels her chest constrict painfully. She is torn between exposing her heart, parting rib by rib to bare her feelings, bring them to light — and doing her job, holding on to her pride and reputation and adhering to all that is requested of her.

Toujou, who is knowingly the most capable woman in her industry, knowingly the most fiercely dedicated to her line of work, considers wavering.

But she doesn’t.

“Nobody will ever love you,” she murmurs dutifully.

Because she has to. Because she was told to. Because there is nothing in her that allows her to defy a perfectly achievable request.

Indeed, it always ends like this.

Iruma sobbing brokenly in her arms, and Toujou unable to tell her a thing.

 

 


End file.
